“Org!” Virginia called sharply. “Where are those stamps?”
Org’s nervous fingers caressed the half-dollar in his pocket. His mind reached out like the tentacles of an octopus, grasping after an excuse.
“Where are my stamps?” she repeated.
“Er—ah—I went down-town,” Org began. “I went down-town—and—er—ah—Miss Paunee, that mustang woman in the post-office—she told me—she said——”
“Well?” Virginia’s tone was icy.
“Miss Paunee—she told me—ah—she said she didn’t have no two-cent stamps; she had sold out.”
If the glance of a sister’s eye could kill, most brothers would now be dead. Org survived the look she gave him, and sheepishly offered her the fifty-cent piece.
“You don’t need no stamps, Gince,” Org said soothingly. “Them guys you left behind ain’t worth writing letters to.”
“Please keep your opinions to yourself,” his sister advised. “Where have you spent the day?”
“I have been to the Nigger-Heel plantation with Little Bit. Little Bit is a colored person and a very good friend. A colored man named Mustard took me out in a wagon and brought me back,” Org informed her. Then eagerly: “Say, Gince, do you know that a negro is black all over his body, even under his clothes?”